


The Art of Dying

by Blissymbolics



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Existentialism, M/M, Religion, death but it's all good, just in case anyone needs a good cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 23:42:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19366051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blissymbolics/pseuds/Blissymbolics
Summary: In the middle of the fifteenth century, a short text emerged from the ashes of the plague cemeteries.Ars moriendi. The Art of Dying.How to die with grace. With dignity. How to resist the Devil when all hope of recovery is lost.“How long you reckon we have?” Crowley asks. “Thirty years? Maybe forty if we get a lucky deck?”Aziraphale has never felt his will grow so weak. If this is a test, then he has already failed.





	1. Chapter 1

Thirteen pots. Fourteen.

Terracotta splintered in a morbid mosaic. The terror-stricken plants lying limp across the floor.

“Crowley, that’s enough.”

Another pot shatters to the ground.

“I’ll kill them!”

Crash.

“Line them up like rats and bleed them dry!”

Crash.

“I’ll slit my fucking throat just to get down there and–”

“You will do no such thing.”

“Watch me, angel. Watch– ah, fuck!”

One wrong step and Crowley buckles to the floor, a ceramic shard buried deep in the bed of his foot.

“I’m fine!” he snaps. “I’m fine,” he grits through his teeth, grasping his lacerated foot.

“I’m fine.”

Please, no more, Aziraphale begs. No more.

With a suppressed whine, Crowley yanks the shard free, causing a stream of blood to trickle down into the dirt.

With time and treatment, the wound will heal. And yet their bodies will continue to decay, minutely and imperceptibly, corroding until they can age no further.

Crowley continues whimpering. Sobs wracking his chest.

“I don’t want to die.”

Is this what it means to be human? Is this the despair that humanity was plagued with when Eve bit into the apple and cursed mankind with knowledge of its own mortality?

“You’re not going to die. It’s just a cut.”

Crowley’s eyes seem to glaze over. His complexion is dulled to the shade of chalk; cold white shock draining his righteous fervor.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he whispers. “It’s just a cut.”

 

_If future events are known in advance, they are borne more lightly. But very rarely does someone prepare himself properly for death at the right time, as everyone believes they are going to live for a long time, and they never believe that they are so close to death; this, it is certain, happens through the instigation of the devil._

 

In the middle of the fifteenth century, a short text emerged from the ashes of the plague cemeteries.

_Ars moriendi. The Art of Dying._

So many priests perished in the calamity. Often contracting the illness from their own parishioners as they performed their last rites. Flocks were left untended, desperate to secure safe passage into heaven; but without the guidance of the Church, they were forced to rely upon the written words of their fellow man.

How to die with grace. With dignity. How to resist the Devil when all hope of recovery is lost.

“How long you reckon we have?” Crowley asks. “Thirty years? Maybe forty if we get a lucky deck?”

Aziraphale has never felt his will grow so weak. If this is a test, then he has already failed.

“Yes, that sounds about right.”

Why, oh why couldn’t they have crafted younger bodies? How could they have known that the superficial ages they chose for their human vessels would one day determine their actual length of life?

But in the end, would masquerading as younger men really have made a difference? When you’ve been around since the birth of the universe, the difference between forty years and sixty might as well be the lifespan of a mayfly.

No, he can’t allow himself to think in such a way. Time is a blessing. A gift not to be squandered.

And what’s more, Crowley needs him to be strong now more than ever.

“But you know what,” he says cheerfully, “there are currently seven billion humans all going about their lives with full awareness that they won’t be here forever. Humans have managed to build civilizations, raise families, and travel to the stars all while burdened with the inevitability of their own mortality.”

“Yeah, but at least humans know from the beginning that they’re stuck on borrowed time.” His words catch in his throat, tearing it like paper. “And they know that they’re getting into heaven once all is said and done.”

Aziraphale cannot allow himself to succumb to the fear poisoning Crowley’s mind. He simply cannot permit himself to imagine a future where hell reclaims his beloved’s soul.

“Heaven is waiting for you too.”

“Please, don’t lie to me. Please don’t lie.”

 

_In the first temptation concerning faith, the devil presents the following persuasions. Firstly he says: “Hell is not real, there is no Hell.” Secondly he says: “Act like the pagans act, worship idols. There is no life after this life. Your faith is nothing.” Thirdly he persuades him: “Alas, alas why do you suffer so many great horrors in this miserable life. You should kill yourself and you will be freed from every distress, misery, and vexation.”_

 

They buy a cottage. They plant a garden. They bring each other small gifts and indulge in the gentle ceremonies that instill a subtle reverence for the ephemerality of existence.

A human living five hundred years ago would look at their life and think it paradise. In fact, there are probably many humans alive today who would think the same.

They were never hungry. Never burdened. They indulged in hedonism and balanced it out with charity.

Sometimes they would talk about traveling. But between the two of them, they’ve already seen every corner of the earth. And the stress and strain of making the journey with human bodies seems more trouble than it’s worth.

“God, how did we get so boring?” Crowley groans, reclining across the couch, his aging body still effortlessly contorting at serpentine angles.

“I suppose we’ve always been homebodies," Aziraphale replies. "After all, we did decide to obstruct the apocalypse all for the sake of nice wine and decent music. I wouldn’t exactly call our motivations lofty.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Crowley sighs. “And it is kind of nice. Having a home. Not just a place where you store your stuff until times change and you have to move again.”

Yes, a home.

And yet, Aziraphale knows that this contentment would be unsustainable under the weight of eternity.

Oh, how happy they would have been had they been born as humans.

 

_Accordingly, it must be noted that everyone about to die feels himself to be tempted through arrogance; firstly, let him contemplate that arrogance so greatly displeased God that it was for this reason alone that he cast from heaven the most noble of creatures, Lucifer, with all those clinging to him, and damned him forever. Thus, in consideration of this he must humble himself and keep himself lowly by recognizing his sins because he does not not know if he is worthy of hate or love._

 

“Hey, you think it’s too late for us to have kids?”

Aziraphale glances up from the page of his book.

He’s been anticipating this conversation for a while now.

Not dreading, simply anticipating.

And in all honesty, he’s surprised that Crowley has waited so long.

“Children can be an immeasurable source of happiness.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s all well and good, but practically speaking, you think we’ll live long enough to get one through university? I don’t want to make a teenager coordinate our funerals.”

Aziraphale sighs. His own hair has gone completely white, and Crowley's is barely grasping the last of its color.

The years have been kind to them. But the necessities of quotidian life seem to grow more taxing by the day.

“I suppose it depends on the age we start with.”

Crowley stares down into his cup of coffee, his eyes hidden behind the sunglasses he no longer needs, but still depends upon for comfort.

“I’d want a baby. A proper baby. With the little shrimp toes and everything.”

Aziraphale gives a small, wistful laugh.

“I’m afraid it may be too late for one that young.”

Crowley manages to force the twinge of a smile, but it’s belied by the tremble in his hands.

“I’d love to be a father alongside you,” Aziraphale says, reaching forward to clasp his restless hand. “But on equal terms, I wouldn’t mind dedicating every last second solely to you.”

That’s truly all he has to offer. It’s tragic that humans are so irreverent towards the gift of time. Each person is only granted a finite amount, and when they deign to spare it on others, it’s the most precious gift there is.

“Next life then.” Crowley smiles.

“Next life.”

 

_Do not let demons tempt you at the gates of death._

 

Crowley hears a faint dirge on the wind. His executioner is wordlessly escorting him to the edge of a cliff. His feet dragging as he tears up the earth in anger.

Five months.

Five months to get his affairs in order. One hundred and fifty mornings. One hundred and fifty midnights. One hundred and fifty steps before the needle rises and the music skids to a halt.

The treatment options are all in trial stages, but he still registers for each one. Even if all they buy him is one more day. One more second that he can spend in Aziraphale’s arms. A single moment to help keep him warm during the everlasting winter he’ll spend in hell.

“I’m not going to leave you here,” he seethes through his teeth, his tears burning like the rain that fell down upon those who derided Noah. “That’s a bloody promise.”

 

_The devil tempts the dying man through impatience, which rises from a serious illness, saying: “Why do you suffer this agonizing pain, which is intolerable to every creature and is utterly useless to you, by right such great suffering should not be used even though your sins demand punishment._

_Through these and similar wiles the devil labors to lead the man to impatience, which is opposed to the charity by which we are bound to love God above all else, so that thus the man would lose his merits._

 

He keeps his promise. He’s the miracle patient. Agony upon agony, indignity upon indignity, and once the final tumors are excised, his body is so full of holes it’s a miracle that his insides don’t simply spill out onto the floor.

But he doesn’t care that his physical form is atrophied beyond recovery. He’s alive. He’s still here. He kept his promise. Through sheer spite and malice, he salvaged whatever precious time they have left.

“Never scare me like that again,” Aziraphale cries against his temple.

And Crowley swears on every heartbeat he has left, he won’t be the first of them to leave. He’ll cling to this body like the precipice of a canyon for the sake of sparing his angel the loneliness of being left behind.

 

_Against the temptation of the devil, the angel gives benevolent inspiration, saying “O man, turn your mind from impatience. Through it the devil with his death-bringing encouragements seeks nothing other than the destruction of your soul._

 

“What do you reckon we should do after this?”

“After what?”

“This.” Aziraphale gestures to their modest garden, ripe with sweet peas and strawberries. “Would you want to come back here? New body, new mission. Back to the same old routine. Or would you be interested in settling someplace else?”

He glances up at the stars, even though the light of the neighborhood has muted them through a hazy film. Oh how he misses the clear skies. It’s been more than a century since he’s had the opportunity to see the stars in all their glory.

“I don’t know,” Crowley hums. “I have been getting a bit stir crazy. And I think it’d be nice to take a break from all this humanity.”

“You’ll always end up back here though. You’d get bored anywhere else.”

“Yeah, probably. But right now, I think I could use a break from all this excitement.”

“I agree.”

If Aziraphale could have one wish, any wish at all, it would be for hope of heaven on par with the most devout humans. If only he could believe beyond all doubt that there is another life waiting for them. A new adventure. Another eternity.

Oh how he wishes he could believe; and unburden himself from this fear that their companionship is drawing to a close. That the curtains are falling on their story. That this is their epilogue. This garden, the humid air and sleepy wind chimes, all a soft goodbye. A vision of what awaits him in heaven, but absent the only thing that matters.

 

_Then the evil devil pursues the temptation from avarice against the one in agony, saying firstly: “You must consider your friends,” showing to him those who are beautiful. And then he says: “Look to your treasure,” presenting before him his treasure, sheep, horses and servants. “Think about it, how you wish to be with it. There is no better guardian of it than you.”_

 

“Crowley? Dear lord, what happened to your body? Is this some new disguise? Dressing up as an old man to lure people into your lair or whatever it is you do?”

“Yeah, that’s right. What do you think?”

“It doesn’t suit you at all. Why don’t you drop it? It’s just the two of us.”

Crowley can’t remember how many times they’ve repeated this conversation. Over and over again, a wasteland, a facsimile of hell crafted in accordance with the night terrors of mankind’s cruelest philosophers.

They don’t have much time left. Of course they never had much to begin with. But even as a demon, he was never cruel enough to curse anyone with such suffering.

This life they’ve shared together: forty-two years of memories, love, and pain, all rendered null and void before their final goodbye.

It’s not fair.

It’s not fair.

“Crowley, what’s wrong?”

He has to fabricate an excuse. Quickly. It’s the only way to keep him placated.

Telling the truth is futile. He’s tried so many times before, only for the angel to forget it all before he can finish.

 

_Then the devil tempts the sick man through despair which is contrary to the hope and the confidence that Man should have in God. When the sick man is wracked with physical pain, then the Devil adds pain to the pain by throwing in his way the sins he has not confessed, in order to induce him to despair saying: “Wretched one, look at your sins which are so great that you would never be able to acquire grace.” Look how you have transgressed the precepts of God. For you have not loved God over all things, you have brought injury to men and yet you know well that no-one can be saved unless he kept the Commandments of God. But you have lived in arrogance, in avarice, in depravity, in gluttony, in anger, in envy, in laziness, yet you have heard it preached that man can be damned through one mortal sin._

_Through these and similar things he leads man to despair, which above all evil things must be avoided since it offends the mercy of God which alone saves us._

 

Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe this is Aziraphale’s reward. Thus, in compliance with divine harmony, it must also serve as Crowley’s punishment.

Their human lives were blessed with elemental happiness, but also tainted with devastating dread. Dread for the future. The afterlife. The certainty that they will not find each other in death.

But for Aziraphale, that fear is gone. It never existed. Erased by the natural degeneracy of his mind. And maybe Crowley should be grateful on his behalf, and pray that when his time comes, he’ll be granted such a kindness as well.

“Crowley, where are you?”

“I’m right here,” he answers, clasping the angel’s hand with all the strength of a withered leaf.

Maybe the film that has settled over Aziraphale’s eyes is a mercy as well. He wants the angel to remember him as he used to be. Even if that material form was no more real than the one he inhabits now.

“There’s something wrong with your body,” Crowley says gently. “Blew a fuse or something. You have to go up to heaven to get a new one.”

“Oh dear. Is that why I can’t see?”

“Yes, that’s right. But don’t worry. It’s only temporary.”

Silence. Crowley only hopes that he can feel the sunlight soft against his skin.

“Quite a nuisance, isn’t it?” the angel mumbles. The rhythm of his heart is growing fainter, his sightless eyes drifting low.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

“We should… we should have lunch…” the angel's voice trails off into a whisper.

“Yes, that sounds lovely.”

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

For the last four decades, he’s been measuring time in days. But more recently, he’s been forced to count in hours. And now breaths.

Stay present. Remember this pain. Be thankful for your daily bread. Do not succumb to the wrath of the Devil.

Do not despair.

Do not forsake.

Do not turn your eyes away from God.

A gentle sigh. A final heartbeat. And then… emptiness.

Loneliness.

Everything they had, everything they were. Gone. A memory now only half complete.

And Crowley cries with the wrath of every death in human history. Were he still a demon, he’d resurrect armageddon and exact his revenge upon heaven, hell, and God herself for forcing him to suffer grief too excruciating to bear over the course of a thousand lifetimes.

But he’s weak. He’s old. All he can do now is beg for mercy. Beg until his soul forsakes this traitorous shell. Repent his sins in the futile hope that God will forgive his transgressions and make him whole again.

His suffering is absolute. He’s fulfilled his penance. Six thousand years of sin, all paid in full the moment Aziraphale vanished from his side.

 

_Against the temptation of the devil, the angel gives benevolent inspiration, saying: “O man, why do you despair? For although you may have perpetrated a great many crimes, as many as there are drops of water and grains of sand in the sea, even if you alone may have committed the sins of the whole world, even if you may never have done penance for these sins before, nonetheless you must in no way despair. Hope is the anchor of our salvation and the foundation of our life, it is the leader of the path that brings us to heaven. Therefore it ought never to be abandoned on account of sin._

_And victory having been won, the evil devil departs, saying: “There is no victory for me here.”_

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I originally posted this story last night as a single chapter, but I was just rereading it and felt that there really should be a divide here. So sorry if you've already read it and thought there was more. I'm sorry. I love you.


	2. Chapter 2

“So, lunch at the Ritz?”

“Hate to break it to you, but the Ritz isn’t there anymore. Got shut down for money laundering, among other things. Stirred up quite a scandal. It happened before you left, but you were a bit slow on the uptake.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. I mean, we had so many lovely memories there. And, well, I’ve never been all that adept at letting things go.”

“You’d think we’d be used to it by now. But I suppose we’re destined to be hopeless sentimentalists from now until the end. The proper end. The end to end all ends.”

“You’ve always been so convinced that existence has an expiration date. Is your nihilism involuntary, or do you simply find pessimism fashionable?”

“Deadlines keep me from wasting time.”

“But they also make you miserable. So why don’t you suspend your disbelief and trust that we have all the time in the world? For me.”

“Well, I suppose I’ve been wrong every other time I thought the world was going to end. So I guess it’s smart money to bet I’ll get it wrong again.”

“But you know what, despite the unpleasantness of the whole affair, I’m glad it happened. Upon reflection, I think it may have been a lesson. A very harsh lesson no doubt, but a useful one.”

“And what exactly did we learn?”

“That we wasted six thousand years being idiots. And we shouldn’t waste a second more.”

 

_Accordingly, note what the salvation of man in the end consists of: everyone must assiduously take care that he arrange with a devoted, trustworthy and suitable companion or friend to faithfully assist him in the end to the constancy of faith, patience, devotion, confidence, and perseverance by inciting and reviving him, and in agony by saying faithfully devotional prayers on his behalf._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I had to ugly cry over my keyboard for hours, then so do you!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/blissymbolics1) / [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/blissymbolics)


End file.
